


Scattered

by winternacht



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Emotional Manipulation, Hanahaki Disease, Loneliness, M/M, One-sided Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims - Freeform, Sexual Content, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-16 21:19:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16502894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winternacht/pseuds/winternacht
Summary: It’s been three weeks, and Martin hasn’t visited Jon once.





	Scattered

“Has the Archivist’s condition improved at all yet?” Peter’s smile is friendly, and Martin has to force himself to keep looking at him. The fact that Peter is sitting makes it a little easier; it allows Martin to keep his gaze lowered instead of forcing him to raise it, something he’s not used to at his height. Still, the sight of him in Elias’ office and in his chair is jarring.

“No,” Martin replies. “Still the same.”

The flash of teeth gives Peter’s smile an edge of cruelty, and Martin wonders if it’s twisted amusement at Elias’ expense, or if he can easily see through Martin.

It’s been three weeks, and Martin hasn’t visited Jon once. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, of course he does. It’s not like he hasn’t had the opportunity to go, either. But instead, he spent two weeks holed up in his flat, his interactions with others limited to waiting for assistance at the self-checkout and brief text exchanges with Basira and Melanie, until restlessness guided his steps back to the Institute.

He goes to bed every night, thinking that tomorrow will be the day he finally goes. But come morning, he wakes up knowing that he won’t, because every time he shifts his purpose to the visit, he feels the cut of Elias’ words in his mind, the truth that twists its ways through his mind like a vine, and every thought it touched withered under its parasitic influence. And when he tries picturing himself sitting once again by a hospital bed, breathing in the scent of disinfectant, watching over, caring for someone who hates him-

No. Jon doesn’t hate him, he knows this, even though he finds it hard to divorce thoughts of how Jon might feel about him from the bitter hatred his mother directed towards him, hatred Elias forced to take root in his mind. But he isn’t sure if Jon does more than tolerate him. He has been kinder in recent months, but he has been kinder to all of them since he’s gotten back. It doesn’t mean a thing, and even if it did-

“A shame, really,” Peter says, his voice dipped in careful concern. Martin can’t tell if he’s feigning. Perhaps he is genuinely worried. From the information Jon shared with them, it appears he’s just as interested in the Watcher’s Crown as Elias. Neither of them said a thing at the time, too occupied with the Unknowing to think an apocalypse ahead, but Martin knew that the certainty that it involved Jon somehow weighed heavy on his mind.

Martin just hums in agreement, unable to speak around the lump in his throat.

“Well, do keep me updated, please. I don’t quite share Elias’ talent for keeping an eye on everything myself, but rest assured, I have a knack for knowing when to look. And I’m not going to lie, the instruction he’s left are quite… well, I’m sure you know what he’s like.” His tone is light, and Martin does not know what to make of it, the vague fear of being goaded into saying something incriminating that colours all their interactions flourishing in the back of his mind.  

“Sure.”

“Lovely. That would be all, for now.”

Martin nods and leaves, taking his time as walks back to the Archives. The atmosphere in the Institute has become oddly subdued since Peter took over. Even the sound of Martin’s steps across the hardwood floor, which he’s always felt so self-conscious about, is quiet.

The Archives, on the other hand, remain familiar. Perhaps in there, the Eye’s power is too strong to simply yield to the Lonely. But a different kind of emptiness reigns in the place. Melanie and Basira still haven’t returned. Tim’s desk has been cleared.

Martin remembers the cups of coffee Tim used to forget overnight. The calendar he insisted on keeping even though he wasn’t actually using it. His mobile faced down when he put it on the desk so that it wouldn’t distract him, but he did take his time to check it at least once an hour, leaning back in his chair, making it creak, and Martin couldn’t help looking up, a distraction that was often welcome and always subtly reassuring, proving that he was not alone.

Jon’s desk has not changed in the slightest, and looking at it, Martin gets the impression that he might walk into his office any second carrying a cup of tea and a statement while balancing a tape recorder on his arm. Only the fine layer of dust betrays his absence. Martin resists the urge to clean it, but he can’t resist drawing a line along the edge. His fingertip feels as dry as the air in the room, and he tries clearing his throat. The attempt descends into a proper coughing fit, and when he takes away his hand, he finds a wet, purple lump in it. He shivers in disgust and reaches for a tissue.

* * *

The walls in his flat are bare now. After Elias had violated his mind, he went home and removed all the pictures, tossing them into a large refuse sack that’s still sitting by the door, riding the burst of impulsiveness, the desire to prove he was someone else.

He wonders idly if he should cover the empty spaces to quell the urge to put the photos back up, maybe with quotes. Something to make his flat feel like a home again. But it hasn’t felt like that in years. He doesn’t know where to start, either. When he tries to figure out what he wants, he feels like a stranger. Maybe the answer would reveal itself if he visited Jon. If he remembered how he felt again, destroyed the seeds of doubt Elias had planted and anchored his feelings and himself to someone real.  

His bed is cold as he lies in it. At least he already knows that tomorrow, he won’t be visiting Jon.

* * *

He wakes up with a sweet taste on his tongue, along with the feeling of something soft and small, like a piece of wrapping he accidentally bit into while eating a sandwich. He reaches into his mouth to pull it out. Yellow this time, but not pressed into a lump like yesterday. It’s a flower petal, or at least Martin thinks it is, but it can’t be, because he has no plants apart from a small cactus that sits on the windowsill. And the last time he’s been around flowers was during the funeral.

It does give him the idea to buy some flowers for Tim’s desk, however. Something to smooth out the harsh edge of his absence.

At the flower shop, he tries to figure out what kind of flower the petal might have belonged to, but he has no eye for this kind of thing. He takes a couple of pictures, just in case, but he hopes that he won’t have the opportunity to take a closer look.

* * *

He runs into Peter at the entrance to the Institute, just narrowly avoiding a collision. Martin can’t shake the feeling that even if he’d paid more attention, he would not have spotted him earlier.

“Ah,” Peter says and nods towards the bouquet in Martin’s hand. “For Tim?”

“Yes.”

“Of course. Lilies would be slightly morbid for a hospital visit, don’t you agree?”

“Yes.” The answer barely makes its way out of Martin’s constricted throat. “Excuse me.”

He practically runs to the next bathroom, barely managing to slam the door behind him before he starts coughing and retching. A spray of red, and a yellow flower lands in the sink. His hands slide across the enamel as he tries to steady himself enough to inspect it, but he can hardly bring himself to look at this- this thing, its petals sticking together with blood and strings of saliva like cobwebs. He wants nothing more than to watch it all go down the drain and chase it down with bleach, but he knows he shouldn’t. It’s evidence, and Jon needs evidence, and before Martin can stop it, his entire body convulses, and two more flowers follow. He recognises them now. Daffodils.

With shaking hands and two layers of paper towels, he gathers them up and throws them away, then lets the water run until the blood is gone. He will figure it out on his own, somehow.

* * *

Martin spends the entire day looking for statements about flowers. He finds one that is close enough to his situation, but when he tries to record it, he immediately realises that there’s something off about it. It doesn’t draw him in the way statements usually do. Instead, his attention drifts, from the flowers on Tim’s desk to the clock on the wall to his phone, and in the end, he doesn’t even bother trying to record it digitally.

Jon would have been irritated, Martin knows, but he understands the statement giver’s intentions. He wonders if he too would have once considered it romantic, poetic even, to be filled with flowers for Jon. A small part of him actually does, and wishes that Jon would walk in suddenly and cure him.

Martin tries listening to Lester Chang’s statement, recorded by Jon, but when Martin hears his voice, he feels the now already familiar itch in his throat. Jon seems to have forgotten to record over the non-essential parts, and under different circumstances, Martin would have smiled. He had no idea Jon liked cats. But then, how much does he know about Jon? He remembers Basira’s comment too well – “Maybe you aren’t listening.” He remembers the bitter jealousy he felt. And he remembers lying in bed later that night, forced to admit to himself that she had been right. The pain in his throat becomes unbearable, and he ends up spitting another flower onto the desk. Yellow again, but a rose this time, its thorns cutting his lips and tongue.

He has to pause the statement twice, and in the end, he’s no closer to an answer than before. Maybe it was the corruption. Filth. Consuming him from inside out, just the way Mr Chang’s poor father-in-law was consumed by that horrific fungus. But he is certain that that’s not it. He spent thirteen days hiding from Jane Prentiss, just outside his door. He knows what the Corruption feels like.

* * *

He dreams of Jon compelling him into giving a statement. And Martin wants to tell him, he really does. But all that’s coming of his mouth are flowers, gathering on the desk before Jon, who looks at them- Martin wishes it was in disgust. Anything would be better than that neutral, uninvolved expression as he keeps pushing.

Suddenly, Jon’s on his feet, his hand shooting out towards Martin’s jaw, prying his mouth open. With his other hand, he pulls and pulls and _pulls_ as if he could drag the answer straight out of his throat, but instead, he plucks more flowers away, tearing at the plants that have taken root in his lungs, heedless of the thorns that dig into his hands, that cut the inside of Martin’s mouth to ribbons as he tries to speak.

Martin calls in sick in the morning, when he manages to find his voice in the pile of flowers on his pillow. He doesn’t go back to work for a week.

* * *

“Rosie said you wanted to see me?” Martin asks in a raspy voice as he enters the office on his first day back. Peter smiles at him, almost kindly, but Martin has never been one to be charmed by a kind smile.

“Yes, thank you for coming here so quickly. I have wonderful news. Elias tells me the Archivist has regained consciousness.”

Martin’s mouth drops open. He’s so relieved, he nearly wants to cry. And the pain in his chest flares up again, causing him to sway on the spot until his hands find the back of the chair in front of Elias’ desk.  Peter’s expression remains delighted.

“He’s also given me some very clear instructions on how to proceed, and I’m sure you’re the right person for the job. Now, if you could bring him this tape recorder and-“ He rummages in one of the drawers, while Martin tries to brace himself. “-this tape, plus these statements right here, and he should be feeling better soon. And I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear that you have been visiting-“

“Stop it,” Martin says. His knuckles are stark white. Peter raises his eyebrows at him, but his lips remain curled into this awful, awful smile. “Stop talking like you care about me, or about Jon, or-“ He bites onto petals and leaves as he speaks, and before he can cover his mouth, a lone petunia lands on the seat. Retching, Martin covers his mouth.

He doesn’t even excuse himself this time, simply rushes off to the Archives, the one place in the entire Institute that feels familiar, that’s so empty that he doesn’t have to worry about anyone bursting in and seeing him as he hacks up flower after flower. They just keep coming, sometimes unhindered, and sometimes, it feels, deeply rooted in his chest so he has to pull at them. He’s terrified. Jon is alive, and Martin is terrified he will die before being able to see him one last time.

The bathroom door creaks open, and for a second, Martin believes it’s Jon, and he raises his hand to wipe across his face, as he’d just been caught in the middle of brushing his teeth and had some toothpaste on his lips. It’s happened before, he remembers suddenly, and Jon would always make a small noise of frustration in his throat upon entering and seeing him there bent over the sink, and Martin… he remembered spending the rest of the day trying to make it up, to take care to make no other mistake so he could watch Jon walk out of the Archives pleased. There was a comfortable safety in the certain rejection, a calming routine to trying to mould his behaviour to Jon’s liking, an urge that only got stronger with every hint of disapproval.

He wonders what expression would be on Jon’s face if he saw him now, leaning over the sink filled with flowers covered in saliva and blood. It would never be the self-satisfied smile Peter’s wearing as he lets the door fall shut behind him, oddly soundless. But would it be irritation or maybe concern, genuine concern, and-

“Go away,” Martin manages to spit out between mouthfuls of flowers. He ends up choking on his words and a stem that got trapped in his throat, and he doubles over the sink, coughing and coughing, tears rolling down his cheeks.

He doesn’t know how long Peter watches before he finally interferes, before he puts a hand on Martin’s neck, and then, in one swift movement, pulls out the flower. It burns, but all Martin can think of is that this is the first time he’s been touched by someone else in a long time, had any sort of physical contact with another person. Peter’s touch tears something open inside him, in his chest, a wound that throbs and aches worse than any of the roots in his lungs leave behind.

“Go-“ he tries again, but the sound dies when Peter’s hand slips to his throat, tightening slightly, calloused fingers pressing into his skin.

“You should have told me about this, Martin,” he says, voice jovially reproachful. “Of course, you should have also told me the truth about your visits.” He squeezes his hand, briefly but forcefully, and Martin gulps down a shocked breath of air, all his senses focused only on the rough palm his pulse hammers against. He tries to clear his mind.

“Like you actually care,” he finally snarls, tearing Peter’s hand away from his throat. He doesn’t let go though, because the contact made him feel real in a way he didn’t when they were simply in the same room together, where his presence felt more like an absence.  The taste of pollen and blood on his tongue, he glares at Peter’s reflection.  “Like this isn’t just a game to you! Is Elias sitting in his prison cell _grinning from ear to ear_ watching this?”

Peter laughs, a low, rumbling sound. “You think this is about Elias?” He leans down, and Martin carefully keeps track of Peter’s movements in the mirror. Not that he needs to; the feeling of his breath against his ear, the heat of his body against his back, is more than enough. “You think I can’t be interested in you on my own?”

“Why would you be interested?” He immediately regrets asking, despite the bite he manages to put into the question, and lowers his head, unable to sustain eye contact, even indirect.

“Because Elias overlooked you. He, like everybody else, is so focused on the Archivist, and I won’t deny, I’m curious myself. I got along quite well with Gertrude, you know? But it was her assistant I was interested in. Poor Michael Shelley. Have you heard the story?” Martin nods automatically, and Peter smiles. “Good. But what you probably haven’t heard about is the one thing that matters to me. That when he looked at Gertrude, he was worried, and he was lonely, because she did not look back. A familiar feeling, perhaps?”

He raises Martin’s chin with his free hand so their eyes meet again in the mirror, stretching his throat that starts to itch in his grip, trembling with the effort Martin puts into avoiding a coughing fit.

“But his loneliness took a different form, of course.” He strokes his hand along Martin’s throat until he can’t hold back anymore, and when the flower starts showing between his lips, Peter plucks it out roughly. Martin chokes back a scream, knees nearly giving out beneath him, but Peter steadies him easily against the sink. “But yours, well… it’s rare for loneliness to be so tangible.”

Martin’s hand tightens around Peter’s wrist. “So you did this to me.”

“I suppose my presence may have contributed, yes. Just a matter of bad timing, really.”

Martin grits his teeth. “Can you make it go away?”

“Yes. But there is a price to pay.” He leans closer, his breath, oddly cold, ghosting over his ear. “Your feelings for the Archivist.”

Martin shudders at the sound of his voice, the glee in it. But maybe, he thinks, he would be better off that way. Things would be easier.

“In the statement I read-“ He was interrupted by a coughing fit.

“Ah, of course,” Peter said. “Well, he is awake now. Why don’t you try your luck?”

Martin considers this, too. Running off to the hospital. And then… if Jon rejected him, would he even have the strength to walk back? He could picture it vividly, his footsteps getting heavier as he walked away, his movements getting stiff.  Flowers growing out of his mouth, his veins turning into shoots of ivy and sprouting leaves that tore through his skin, until his body was nothing more than nourishment for the manifestation of his longing.

But maybe, just maybe, if Jon returns his feelings… It’s something he’s dreamed about for such a long time. But now the dream is tainted with the thoughts Elias forced into his mind, and he wonders if Jon returning his feelings would just make things worse instead of better. Or maybe even then, it wouldn’t cure him, because the statement wasn’t real; all he would achieve is to hurt Jon more.

He presses a hand to his mouth, choking back a sob. Then he takes a shuddering breath through the petals crawling up his throat.

“Is there… anything else you can do?”

“I’m afraid not.” Peter lets go of him and takes a small step back, and already, Martin can feel the distance between them, as if they were standing on opposite sides of the room. Martin realises that there is something he is certain of – that he doesn’t want to be alone, that he doesn’t want to let go of Peter.

Martin clings to his wrist the way he clings to this moment of clarity as he pulls his arm forward, reaching behind him with his other hand to pull Peter closer.

There are no flowers spilling out of his mouth when he tells Peter that he is wrong.

* * *

He lets Peter fuck him against the sink. There is a viciousness to his thrusts, a lack of consideration for his comfort Martin welcomes. There is no room for Jon in his head when he braces himself against the mirror, trying to keep his balance on one leg while Peter pushes up the other against the enamel, heedless of the fact that Martin’s foot is still trapped in his trousers, forcing his knee and ankle into awkward angles.

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because the mirror he’s leaning his forehead against is cold and soothing while his body is burning up under Peter’s onslaught that drives all the thoughts out of his head. His breath fogs up the mirror, making it hard to see his or Peter’s reflection, but it doesn’t matter. There is nothing he wants or needs to see, not when he can feel the tight grip of Peter’s hands, his hips slamming against his body, the pain of it only lifting his pleasure to new heights, while all he can do is simply try to hold on. Try to delay another inevitability, the emptiness that is sure to chase the feeling of fullness as Peter thrusts deep inside him.

Dry petals fall from his lips as he moans through his release, and the only thought he can spare is to wonder if maybe that is a good sign as Peter lets out a breathless laugh.

* * *

Martin crawls into the bed in his old room at the Archives. The sheets are cold and only smell faintly of dust. It is a tangible reminder of all the lonely nights he spent there, but somehow, his mind seems to slip off that memory, Martin being too exhausted in every way. It is a comfortable feeling, that much he knows.

He thinks that maybe tomorrow, he will actually manage to visit Jon. A small part of him has already forgotten what he was so afraid of.


End file.
